


The Sure Thing

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [59]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Baby Fic, F/M, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-20
Updated: 2009-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:27:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A minion's lot is not a happy one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sure Thing

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series.

The shiner? It is a beaut, ain't it? Perhaps you think I come by it in some common dust-up, but in that thought you would be sadly mistaken. It is a long story, and my throat being more than somewhat parched - another drink? Why, thank you, pal. Don't mind if I do.

You look to me like a new kid in town, and on that account, I will give you some friendly advice. If you stick it out in Sunnydale long, you will see ins and you will see outs. The Mayor is in, the Mayor is out. The Master is in, the Master is out. Angelus is in, Angelus is out. I take it philosophical, you know? We have some unlikely residents in this burg, namely the Slayer, and that rotten traitor William the Bloody, occasionally known as Spike. At one time, Spike is in, and while he is in he paints the town a fetching red. But then he is out, and his doll gives him the heave-ho, and he falls for the Slayer, and it just goes to show that where dolls are involved, it can only go from bad to worse.

Right now? The Slayer is in. A couple of years ago she hooks up with this Spike guy, and together they close the Hellmouth, and proceed to crack down on the local vamps and generally spread sweetness and light. There is so much sweetness and light spread, in fact, that an honest citizen cannot acquire himself a decent meal any longer without a risk of getting closer-acquainted with a stake than is pleasant. Therefore I decide to take on a little work on the side and accumulate the spondulicks with which to purchase the O-neg I can no longer reliably catch on the hoof. This is how I come to be working for Mr. Teeth.

My esteemed employer is what you might call an entertainment facilitator. Supposing you are a character of sporting disposition who happens to have both time and cash on his hands, who might otherwise find himself bored out of his bean on a Saturday night. You can inquire of Mr. Teeth where you might be able to gain entry into certain games of skill and chance, thereby stimulating both the economy and the intellect. Hating as he does to see a joe cash it in when said joe is on a roll, Mr. Teeth is further in the habit of extending credit, in cash or kittens, for a nominal fee of course, should this hypothetical joe's nut run low.

It happens that now and then some of the citizens to whom Mr. Teeth has been so generous become a little forgetful when it comes to the exact amount they owe him. It is then my sorrowful duty to remind them, gently, of their financial obligations. Yesterday evening it happens that the boss calls me into his office and looks at me very serious. "Winston," he says to me, Winston being my name, "We have a Situation."

I look grave. Vampire, grave, get it? I slay me. But Mr. Teeth is not in the mood for humor. He is a land shark, and they are generally very droll fellows, but tonight I sense he has got a pain. "You work for Mayor Wilkins at one time, do you not?" he says.

"I do," I reply. "But I decide politics is not for me shortly before he becomes a big snake."

"And a wise decision it was, Winston," Mr. Teeth says. He leans back and lights a stogie. "But to the point. You have previous experience dealing with our good friend Mr. Spike."

I give him the nod. "I have the honor to make his acquaintance, though it is an honor I can happily live without. Mayor Wilkins, he sends a bunch of us to talk sweet reason to Spike when he comes to town a few years back hunting up a love spell for his squeeze." (This being Spike's previous squeeze, Drusilla, who was crazy as a bedbug but nohow as bad as bumping uglies with a Slayer.)

"Ah! Then Winston, you are precisely the man for this job."

I chew on this for a minute, and I commence to get uneasy. "Uhhh...Boss...I do not like to be a nosy parker, but are you perhaps hinting that Spike has skipped out on a payment?"

Mr. Teeth sighs, mournful-like. "You surmise correctly, my friend. To the tune of six tabbies and a Manx. Not directly, of course. It appears that Spike owes Clem, and Clem owes Lorquat the Uncanny, and Lorquat..."

Owes the boss. "And you wish me to convince him to pony up the scratch?"

"You are especially perspicacious tonight, Winston. Due to the slight irregularity of the transfer of debts, Spike maintains an unreasonable insistence that he owes me nothing at all." Mr. Teeth looks at me very sharp. "I sense a certain reluctance at odds with your usual enthusiasm for the chase."

I scratch my head and ponder a bit. "The thing is, Boss... as experiences go, talking sweet reason with Spike was not up there with my bar mitzvah. Or even my wedding night."

The boss smiles, and when the boss smiles you are advised to smile with him. "Entirely understandable sentiments," says Mr. Teeth. "But really, Winston, that was years ago. In the intervening period Spike has settled down. Become a family man. Gone, one might say, soft. While you - ah, you, Winston, are a magnificent fighting machine, honed by constant battle!" He hocks the car keys across the desk at me. "Take two of the boys, have them hold him down, and apply a little gentle persuasion. Nothing serious. Broken kneecaps, a good punch to the gut, some trifling thing along those lines."

I am about to tell Mr. Teeth what happens to the last guy who called Spike soft, which is that he gets his beezer repeatedly introduced to a table, but I can see that the boss is not in a listening mood. "Whatever you say, Boss."

So I take the car, but I do not look up a couple of the boys. As it happens I have had occasion to punch Spike in the gut before, during the altercation I mention above. It is not an experience I am eager to repeat. Mainly because anyone close enough to punch Spike in the gut is close enough that Spike gets a head start on ripping their noggins off, and I am very fond of my noggin in its current location.

I decide that this is a subject requiring deep thought, and deep thought requiring a good oiling, I wind up at a joint called the Alibi Room, which joint is run by one Willie the Snitch. Willie is guy with a mug so long his chin is practically polishing the bar, on account of his insurance premiums are so high, and this is on account of the Slayer busts his place up so often.

"Gimmie an O-neg with a whiskey chaser, Willie," I say, lighting up a coffin nail. "And if you have laid eyeballs on Spike of recent, it would be doing me a favor to tell me where."

Willie is more than happy to provide me with the brain grease, but when I say Spike's name he heaves a sigh and jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Back room," he says. "And if you want to remove him, you can be my guest, because he is bringing down the tone of the place something awful."

To tell the truth I am not expecting to find Spike this soon. In fact, I am counting on it. I give Willie the hairy eyeball and I nurse my drink, and as this drink gets lonely I send it some company, and while these drinks are getting acquainted an idea comes to me.

The back room at Willie's is nohow as classy as the joint Mr. Teeth runs, which is prime sewer acreage. Spike is sitting at the table in the back, along with a couple of his minions and some other citizens who go by the names of Ringhar the Inedible, Zhronshak Razorclaw, and Clem, to whom I do not owe any gratitude. There are considerable chips on the table, and there are several baskets of kittens on the floor, and at these kittens I look very envious.

For a guy who has killed two Slayers and shacked up with a third, Spike does not look like much. He is maybe five eight on a good day, and he is built on the less than heavy side. When he is in the mood he bleaches his hair, which is more often than sometimes, but today it is brown. He has a cig in his mouth, a shot glass at his side, a pile of chips in front of him, and a baby on his lap, which is gnawing on a poker chip. It is a tasty enough looking baby, with big blue peepers and curly brown hair, but when I catch a whiff of it something is a little left of center, human-wise, though maybe that is just the diapers.

I see at once what Willie means by Spike bringing down the tone of the place, because one of the minions is carrying a big blue bag with yellow duckies all over it, such as no self-respecting vampire would carry except maybe as a lunch box, and in this bag are bottles and diapers and suchlike paraphernalia of the baby trade. The other minion has charge of a stroller, and is looking very low about it. "Hey, Winston!" Clem says, like we are bosom pals and he has never sold Spike's IOU to Lorquat and gotten me into this pickle. "You want in?"

I wrinkle up my forehead, such as a guy presented with a problem might do. "I would be more than happy to join you," I say, "but I am driving down to Tijuana tonight, and I do not want the sun to catch me out."

"Ah, it is not even close to midnight," says Ringhar. "Siddown and play a hand or two. I will stake you a Siamese."

So I sit down, and Spike gives me an eyeball hairier than what I give Willie. "Put that fag out before I stub it out in your soddin' eye," he snarls, and I see that the cig he is sucking on is not lit, and nobody else has lit up either, which in a demon crowd is no little odd. "William Henry Junior's got working lungs, and I'd bloody well like to keep 'em that way."

And he bounces William Henry Junior on his knee a bit and coos, "Don't you, then? Aren't you the cleverest little man?"

I should perhaps explain that Spike has a small accident with Mohra blood a couple of years ago, which lays him low with a bad case of mortality. This is how William Henry Junior comes about, with some cooperation from the Slayer. At the time there is speculation around the counter at Kohlermann's that Spike will end up human altogether, and in fact Barnghad the Book is giving five to seven against. But Spike is only lucky that he does not have a soul at the time or any time thereafter, and so he pulls through as fangy as ever. A number of citizens are much aggrieved that they lose their potatoes on the wager, and Spike is stuck with a heartbeat, but we do not hold it against him in polite society.

William Henry Junior slobbers around the poker chip and says "Gah!" which to hear Spike crow about it might as well have been the Gettysburg address. I am about to point out that Spike is well known to smoke like a chimney, and working lungs be damned, but it occurs to me that this may be seen as unwelcome criticism of Spike's parenting skills, and I shut my trap.

It is plain that to get on the sunny side of Spike I must get on the sunny side of William Henry Junior. I am no big fan of ankle biters, even in the days when I do not regard them as a light snack, but I put out my cig, screw up my kisser in a big smile, and hold out a mitt.

"How are you doing, William Henry Junior?" I ask.

William Henry Junior takes a gander at my hand, and his big blue peepers go canary yellow, and his face gets even more knobbly than is usual for babies. "Wah!" he says, and latches onto my finger like a Husky onto a pork chop. I let out a holler and try to yank my finger away, but the little bastard (which is a calumny, because Spike and the Slayer got hitched before William Henry Junior made the scene) has got his choppers sunk in good and deep.

"Teething," Spike observes, though I have already observed this for myself. He is highly amused. He looks at William Henry Junior, very stern. "Here, Billy, stop that! No biting strangers. Who knows where his finger's been?"

"Get him off!" I yell.

Spike snaps a finger at the minion with the ducky bag, and this minion fishes around in the bag and hands Spike a bottle full of red stuff. Spike levers the kid's jaws apart with a poker chip and shoves the bottle in, and luckily for me this bottle is tastier than my finger. William Henry lets go and starts slurping away at the red stuff, which smells somewhat like blood and somewhat like milk, and honestly, I do not want to ask. The mechanics of baby vampires are more than somewhat revolting to contemplate.

"William Henry Junior has got quite a grip on him," I say, examining my mangled-up finger and wondering if vampires can come down with the lock-jaw. "And I find myself wondering if the Slayer is due to pay Willie's a visit tonight, because I wish to congratulate her." Possibly with a sawed-off shotgun, or a ball-peen hammer.

It turns out that the Slayer will not be paying Willie's a visit tonight, on account of she has some kind of exhibition night at the rink where she has her day job teaching young dolls to ice skate, the idea being that these young dolls twirl around on the ice a bit in spangles to demonstrate to their parents that the sugar they pay the Slayer for these lessons is going for something. This is why Spike has William Henry Junior tonight, not that he does not have him other nights as well, him putting great store in William Henry Junior. I am not clear on whether the Slayer knows that Spike has taken William Henry Junior to Willie's, but I do not feel it is my business to inquire.

In fact, seeing as I have expressed interest, though I get the impression that he would do the same if I have expressed no interest whatsoever, Spike puffs up like a banty rooster and starts telling me about William Henry Junior's accomplishments. Which to me do not seem anything out of the ordinary, but you would think no rug rat in the history of the universe has ever rolled over or sat up or said "Goo!" before, though it is perhaps true that no rug rat with fangs like William Henry's has done so.

While Spike is talking, William Henry Junior goes to sleep, and we commence to play poker. Between the calling and the raising, and the folding and the dealer takes two, I study Spike to see if Teeth is right about him going soft, but of this I am not convinced. Domestic bliss has been good to Spike, and maybe he has put on a few pounds, but it appears that most of these pounds are muscle, and as for the rest of them, maybe Mr. Teeth does not agree with me, but personally, I find there is no great difference, fist-wise, between punching a stone wall and punching a stone wall when someone has thrown a blanket over. And also Zhronshak Razorclaw talks very respectful to Spike, and Zhronshak Razorclaw is a citizen widely known to seldom talk respectful to people who cannot render him into very small pieces.

So we play more than a few hands, and we drink more than a few beers and possibly there is a second bottle of whiskey we feel it is our duty to kill as the first has already been so severely wounded, and everything is very jovial. "It is a pity," I say at last, "that you have William Henry Junior tonight, though I am very pleased to meet him."

Spike looks over his cards at me with a scowl. Spike is no great shakes as a poker player, but he is one of the best card sharps going, what with dealing off the bottom of the deck, and filling straights more often than is seemly, and throwing up more aces than are present in your more respectable decks. And in this particular game there is some general reluctance for him to raise, because most of his stake is covered in baby drool. "Yeh? Why's that?"

"It happens that I have a cousin in Tijuana," I say. "And this cousin happens to make the acquaintance of a trainer at the greyhound track - Enrico Maldonado, maybe you know of him? He is a big wheeze in the dog racing biz in Mehico."

Spike grunts, but he is listening. It is well-known among the citizens of Sunnydale that there are few things Spike is so fond of as dog races, though as there are no dog tracks in the great state of California, he does not often get the opportunity to indulge this hobby. "And Enrico tells my cousin that he has got a dog running this week who is a dead cert, and furthermore of the only other dogs in the race with a tinker's chance of beating her, one has got a cough and the other one a bum leg. I have made up my mind to make a run down to Tijuana and try my luck, though with such inside information as I have, it is a sin to call it luck. And if you did not have William Henry Junior," I say, "I would invite you along, seeing as I know you are a guy who knows his dogs."

"Bollocks," says Spike, tossing a couple baby-chewed chips into the pot. "These track tips never come to anything. Call, and raise you five."

I look earnest at him. "Maybe this is so, but I figure it like this. At exactly this minute I cannot afford to lay down more than twenty calico on this dog. If I win, I am rolling in kittens. If the dog goes belly up, I figure I can pick up enough strays in Tijuana to cover my losses. It is probably different for a guy like you, as I hear you are raking in the dough selling demon parts these days, and I cannot blame you if you do not wish to upset the Slayer by blowing it on dog races, even if they are a sure thing. Dolls can be very unreasonable about such matters."

I can see that this needles Spike more than somewhat. He frowns. "Not a matter of upsetting the Slayer," he says. "It's a four-hour drive, and..." I can see he is working out the logistics of this four-hour drive in his head, and the minions commence to look unhappy, and to give me the stink-eye, because if Spike decides to take William Henry Junior on a four-hour drive to Tijuana to play the dogs, they will be carrying the bags with yellow duckies on them right behind him, and outside of Sunnydale, such behavior on the part of respectable vampires may cause undue comment. When Spike shakes his head at last, they are much relieved.

"Not tonight," he says, no little regretful. "William Henry Junior is likely to get sun-struck."

Thoughts of William Henry Junior going up in flames cheer me considerable. "As I say, I do not blame you, dolls being dolls, even if they are Slayers. But say!" I plaster a look on my mug like I have got religion, or maybe a winning Powerball ticket. "As long as I am going anyway, perhaps I can place a bet for you. I have taken the precaution of getting an extra kitty carrier from the boss, in case I win big, but I can easily use it to carry a few extras for you. If you do not think the Slayer will mind."

"The Slayer doesn't come into it," Spike snaps, and leans over to grab the basket of kittens beside his chair. "Man's got a right to lay a bet when he's flush, doesn't he? Now you take these, and - "

I am just reaching for the kittens, and trying to keep the big grin off my puss because Spike is handing me eight tabbies and a Persian, which is enough to keep the boss happy and change. All I have to do now is take a small vacation in Mehico, from where I will mail Spike a postcard informing him that I am deeply sorry, but the sure thing comes up with an unexpected pain and finishes second. But just as I am taking hold of the basket, the door to Willie's back room busts open, and there is the Slayer.

The Slayer is a cute little doll with big green eyes and blonde hair that I am fairly sure she is not born with, and she is tiny enough to make Spike look like a gorilla. At the moment she is wearing a very flash jacket over a snazzy spangled number and tights, and you cannot tell she is a doll who has a baby six months ago, excepting maybe she is a bit more va-voom in certain departments than she once was, which is not an unwelcome development, providing you are into Slayers. She has her ice skates slung over one shoulder, and from the look in her eyes she is about to sling them elsewhere toot sweet.

"Spike!" she says, and Spike freezes up like a stunned ox. "You were supposed to pick me up two hours ago!"

It is obvious that Spike does not recall this little detail. He swallows. "Er... lost track of time, pet?"

Clem is looking pale around the wattles, and Ringhar the Inedible starts gathering up his kittens with an eye to a quick departure. Spike commences to sweat, and to feed the Slayer a line about his cell phone being on the fritz, but the Slayer is not buying this line, and I do not blame her, as it is distinctly second-rate. Her eyes go from big and round to small and slitty, and she shoves her skates at Clem, and hauls off and punches Spike right in the snoot.

Or this is what she tries to do, but Spike ducks, and the Slayer punches me right in the snoot instead.

I do not know if you have ever been punched in the snoot by a Slayer, but I can tell you that it is no more pleasant than talking sweet reason to Spike, and possibly less so. I do not recommend it as a pastime. As a result of this punch, I go flying through the air, and if there is not a window in the way, I may go into orbit. But the window breaks my fall, and I land in the trash cans in the alley behind the Alibi Room instead. Somewhere I can hear Willie the Snitch moaning because his insurance premiums have just gone up again.

These trash cans are in no way comfy, but I am too dizzy to get up right away, and this gives me great respect for Spike's constitution, as I can see through the window that he and the Slayer are whaling on each other no little, and he is giving as good as he gets. William Henry Junior decides that this is a fine time for him to wake up and start bawling, which he commences to do at the top of his working lungs. The Slayer leaves off whaling on Spike to go snatch him up and coo over him. She looks this close to busting into tears, trying to see if William Henry is hurt and blubbering about what a bad mama she is.

Spike looks like someone has ripped his heart out and handed it to him. "No, love, no, I'm the miserable, thoughtless bastard, look, he's fine, I promise, he's just cut his first fang," and he pries the kid's jaws apart again, and shows her the pearly little needle with which William Henry gives me such a first-class chomping earlier. The Slayer looks at this for a minute, and her lip trembles and her eyes go big again, and what do you know but she does bust into tears, and hugs Spike something fierce, as if William Henry has just won the Nobel Prize for teeth.

Which just goes to show, you cannot understand a doll.

So Spike and the Slayer take William Henry Junior and go home arm in arm, making eyes at each other in a manner that makes me think William Henry has siblings in his future. The minions follow them, still carrying the ducky bag, though trying to pretend they are not. The kittens go every which way, as kittens tend to do when they are unhappy with the proceedings. And me? I get up and dust myself off, and come here to have one for the road before I leave on my vacation to Mehico, which I am thinking will be permanent.

I have to see a man about a dog.

END


End file.
